Dumb Brute

Today, this rain, these streets slicked, these people huddled under eaves, walking... rain on the face, spotting the glasses. This walk, this soft wind, this day, trapped in the amber of memory. Hear the angels,  guiding the steps, holding the hand, this endless walk, this rainy day.

The stories are for the most part forgettable. I don't even find the scenes interesting the music is terrible the voice acting is non-existing. In fact the actors don't even speak, Its as if they should not be trusted with dialogue. These people are just meat, pre ordered Fuck Bots purchased on sale for the fake fuck routine. 

It snowed, again. It rained and the streets flooded the tire treads rolling over the bones of the dead. The sun shone, and then it was cloudy, the grass grew, died, and the flowers in full bloom rotted and returned. In these passing season, the passing days, something grew and twisted, gnarled and crowded crept slowly across the skin. These scars piled up, the rings that marked the years, and still it turns. left to right, the wheels of the stars, the wheels of prayer, and the flags that were high in that parade are now trampled beneath our heels.  

The walk home, the rain falling, the shirt clings to the skin, these spring days, gray green, clouds rolling... push the birds higher.  The thought of the sun high above shining still, those rays touch the mind and although they do not warm the skin, shine light on those hidden memories of fingers touching, the hair in the mouth, the smell of the skin. Standing alone in the cold rain. 

430 am, 30 mins before his alarm goes off he is awake laying there staring at the green numbers of his clock. The alarm set for five, he reaches over and presses random buttons, and till the small bell disappears signaling that the alarm has been turned off. Getting out of bed he walk thru his apartment in the dark. He can hear the rain against the window, the sound of a odd car splashing its way along at the early hour.

He feels hung over, but it’s just the after effect of the medication he takes to fall asleep at night, he had not a drink in over a month. He does however have a chest infection, yet he  opened the balcony door and stepped out in to the rain, in his running shoes, and boxer shorts to have a smoke.  His chest feels tight, heavy, while his head pounds, and the wind  and the rain chill his exposed skin. Every morning is the same. There has been little change, he still feels wrong, and as he watched as the cars splash by he thinks to himself, how long can this really go on?

In the car, speed, cutting thru the darkness. Flashing, racing,over bridge, thru mist. Roaring fire, humming steel, feel the lift as we float between lanes.

He touched the crown of his head and his lips, and then rested his hands at his chest where his heart would be. He opened his eyes, and looked out the window in to the night's skies out across the field of stars. In the web he sat centered, open, and permeated the information as it flowed outward and rolled back in again.  Each breath filling space... subject, object, and action... empty, and resting... draw it in.... exhale. 

Bury it down. The chest tightens at the thoughts, the pictures still burn. There is a cold wind, and it is snowing, the flakes rushing around flying up ward, defiling, melting on the still beating heart. These thoughts expressed in a scream that rattles the core, the twisting limbs, that dance. The people rush thru the storm. A man with a tv in a shopping cart pushes down the street. Traffic blinded in the flurry creeps along.  The hand holds the winds at bay momentarily as the cigarette is lit. In these thoughts there are no words, just drifts, the whirl of whiteness, standing here eye narrowed.